


Belated Birthday

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Octavia Street musings [6]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Drunkenness, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-02
Updated: 2019-09-26
Packaged: 2020-04-06 13:16:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19063453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Early spring 1998.





	1. Chapter 1

Cormoran Strike sat down at the little pub table and slid a glass of wine across to his companion. He set his pint in front of him. The evening was early, the pub filled with post-work drinkers. No doubt it would calm down later.

He raised his glass. “Happy birthday,” he said. “Well, belated birthday. Sorry I didn’t make it last Saturday.”

Ilsa grinned. “That’s okay,” she said. “Thank you. We had a good time anyway, you missed a fun evening. What happened?”

Her old friend’s gaze slid away from hers. Spots of colour glazed his cheeks. “Charlotte happened,” he muttered.

Ilsa snorted, and he glanced back at her sharply. “Not like that,” he said. “We broke up.”

“Oh, Corm, I’m so sorry.” Ilsa slid her hand across the table to squeeze his. “How come?”

Strike hesitated. He wasn’t sure he had the words to express the last few months, the fights, the accusations, the screaming and tantrums. He’d seen glimpses into the darkness at the heart of his long-term girlfriend’s mind that had frightened him. It was as though she was so broken, she was determined to break him, too.

“She’s...got issues,” he said finally.

Ilsa nodded, a little relieved that he could finally see what had been rather more obvious to people who weren’t as besotted with her as he was, as blinded by her beauty. “I kind of assumed so,” she said gently. “What actually happened?”

Strike’s jaw tightened. “We had the final fight. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Ilsa nodded. There was a pause.

“So where are you living now?”

“Back in barracks.”

“Not quite the same as a fancy flat in Belgravia.”

Strike snorted a laugh. “No.”

“Is it...for good?”

He nodded. “I think so. I assume so, anyway.”

“Well. I know it isn’t the done thing to say it, but good riddance to her. I didn’t like her anyway.”

Strike huffed a little breath of acknowledgement. This came as no surprise. Even when he and Charlotte had been happy, she had been snippy with his friends, fiercely jealous of any time he spent not with her. Ilsa had soldiered on, patiently polite, unlike Dave Polworth who was equally rude back to her. Strike had detected hints of a grudging respect in his girlfriend for the mate who refused to back off despite her spiky animosity. Ilsa’s refusal to be drawn into arguments had irritated Charlotte beyond measure.

“Well, now you don’t have to put up with her any more,” he said with forced cheerfulness. “So, 23, eh? Time seems to be going faster all of a sudden. How’s work?”

Ilsa nodded. “Good, yeah,” she said. “The girl at the desk next to me, Claire, is ace. We hang out quite a lot after work, too. In fact, we’re talking about getting a flat together.”

“Not happy where you are?” Strike pulled his cigarettes from his coat pocket and took one out of the packet. Ilsa rolled her eyes a little but reached to the next table for an ashtray.

“They’re just...odd. Not very me. Go to these rave-style parties, witter on about shopping, watch crap TV. I’m not unhappy, but they’re not friends. I found the room in Loot.”

Strike lit his cigarette and drew deeply on it. His pint was almost finished.

“And Claire is in a dreadful flat,” Ilsa went on, giggling. “The woman who owns it I think is only renting the room for extra income. She lets her cats sleep in there in the day. The place reeks of cat, and last weekend when Claire was away visiting her parents, she had a party and let someone sleep in Claire’s bed.”

“Oh, that’s not really on.”

“No. So we might bite the bullet and get a place together, try for something near work. It’s a risk, working and living together when we’ve only known each other, what, eighteen months. But neither of us is going to be worse off.”

“True. And you might make a friend for life.”

Ilsa grinned. “And live together forever and be old maids!” she said. “My round.”

Strike smoked and watched as Ilsa went to the bar for more drinks. He was very fond of his old friend. They’d known one another since they were six, had grown up in the same Cornish village, at least during the times Strike was actually there with his aunt and uncle and not in some commune or squat with his mother.

He sighed and gazed out of the window. He needed to get back to work, take his mind off Charlotte, try to stop endlessly analysing, attempting to understand, wondering whether it was really over or if he was just being shut out by Charlotte’s sister Amelia.

Ilsa returned with another pint and a glass of wine. He grinned at her. “I take it there’s no guy on the horizon, if you’re talking about becoming an old maid?”

To his amusement, Ilsa blushed. “Well, actually, I have a date,” she said, sitting down. “A guy from work asked me out just yesterday. He’s called Pete. We’re going to the cinema next Friday.”

“What’s he like?”

Ilsa nodded. “Yeah, he’s nice.”

“Just nice?” Strike winked.

“There’s nothing wrong with nice. I tried edgy last time, let one of the girls in admin set me up with her biker brother. I thought he’d be cool.”

Strike grinned. “And?”

“Well, _he_ clearly thought he was cool. But, you know, I have limited interest in bikes, and he had no other topic of conversation.”

“What happened to Joe? I liked Joe.”

Ilsa gave him a sideways glance. “Joe was an idiot.”

Strike snorted. “The whole dating thing is going well, then!” he said cheerfully, and Ilsa giggled.

The evening progressed. They discussed work, and Ilsa filled Strike in on her latest round of exams. Strike described his last assignment as far as he was able.

After the third round, Ilsa complained that the uneven drinking levels were deeply unfair, as she was starting to feel quite light-headed after three glasses of wine and she knew three pints wasn’t a lot for Strike. He laughed and bought himself a whisky to go with his next pint, and a lemonade for her.

At some point, it was decided by unspoken agreement that this was one of “those” nights. Ilsa was happy to celebrate her birthday again, and in no hurry to get back to her flatmates, and Strike was finding his dark mood lifting in her cheerful company. By half past ten, although Ilsa was definitely the drunker, Strike was by no means sober.

Hoping his tongue would be loosened by the alcohol, Ilsa returned determinedly to the subject she really wanted to know about.

“Is it really over with Charlotte, then? For good? You guys have argued before.” _Quite a lot,_ she thought privately.

“Not like this.” Strike started moodily into his pint.

Ilsa reached across and poked him on the shoulder. “The strong, silent thing doesn’t work on me, Corm. Talk.”

Strike grinned. When Ilsa was in this mood, he wasn’t going to be able to deflect. Only an outright refusal to talk would work, a tactic he had employed before. But actually, maybe talking about it would help him to understand.

He sighed. “She didn’t want me coming to your thing last Saturday,” he said. “She’s been insanely jealous lately. She’s quite sure I’ve been sleeping with you. Or one of your friends, she kept changing her mind about who it actually was. She was determined to stop me coming out, and I was determined to come, so...”

He tailed off. He had in fact walked out, ducking so that the plate that was aimed at his head shattered on the doorframe instead, and got halfway to the pub where Ilsa and her friends were congregating before Charlotte had called him to say she’d cut her arm so badly, she needed to go to A&E. He’d arrived back at her smart Belgravia flat to be confronted with a frightening amount of blood. She’d dismantled his razor and slashed her arm several times. Horrified, he had wrapped her in towels and taken her to hospital. He’d rung her family, who had swept in and taken over, demanding a psychiatric evaluation. Finding himself suddenly superfluous to proceedings, he’d made his way back to the flat to clean up, a job made surprisingly easy by dint of the fact that Charlotte had, even in her apparent blind despair and rage, carefully bled only into the sink, leaving the newly redecorated bathroom otherwise untouched.

She’d screamed at him earlier in the evening that if he went to the party, he needn’t bother coming back, so he packed up his stuff and left despite it being too late to attend Ilsa’s birthday celebrations now. He was hardly in the mood by then anyway. So he headed back to the Army barracks, and the last he’d heard, Charlotte had been admitted to an eye-wateringly expensive clinic to be treated for “exhaustion”. Amelia refused to tell him where, insisting with a note of triumph in her voice that Charlotte wanted nothing more to do with him. His texts went unanswered.

Ilsa nodded sympathetically as he told the story, her hand on his forearm across the table. Strike didn’t normally go for physical gestures, but her touch was comforting.

He sighed. “What’s done is done,” he concluded. He’d been holed up in barracks for a week, reliving everything, licking his wounds, trying to make sense of it all.

Ilsa shook her head. “You’re better off out,” she said.

“But I think she’s not well.” He was earnest suddenly. “We’ve been together three years, Ils, more than. We’re practically living together when I’m in the country.” He paused. That wasn’t entirely truthful, he suddenly realised - one of Charlotte’s insecurities lay in his refusal to ever totally move in, his insistence on keeping a room in barracks and some clothes there.

“Anyway, if she was ill, physically ill, and I abandoned her, we’d all agree - quite rightly - that I’m a complete heel. This is no different.”

Ilsa squinted at him and wondered if she’d had four or five glasses of wine now. Even given that she’d had small ones, that was most of a bottle. “It is a bit different,” she said. “I mean, it’s not like she’s unable to function or whatever. This is quite manipulative. She knows what she’s doing.”

Strike set his jaw and looked away. Ilsa was probably right, at least partly, but he preferred to think Charlotte wasn’t well, that she needed him. He missed her keenly, despite how bad recent months had been, and was still hoping that when she had finished her so-called treatment (he knew the kinds of places Charlotte’s set went to for a break, and they were hardly the same as the psychiatric treatment centres the NHS provided), that if he could just get past Amelia and talk to her, things between them could be fixed.

Ilsa squeezed his arm, and his eyes prickled treacherously. He cleared his throat. “I still want her back, Ils,” he said softly. “I love her.”

Ilsa sighed. “I know,” she said. “But...”

She looked away. “Sometimes that’s not enough,” she said quietly. “I loved Nick, but he still dumped me.”

Strike laid his hand over hers on his arm. “I know,” he said. He well remembered how cut up Ilsa had been. He’d gone to see her the day he’d found out, and was shocked at her drawn face, puffy eyes, the way she seemed to have shrunk into herself, half the size she’d been when he’d seen her two days earlier, fizzing with excitement at Nick’s impending visit. He still couldn’t work out what had gone wrong. He’d asked Nick once, and got a curt reply and hadn’t tried again. But Nick had scarcely looked any happier at the split.

His thoughts returned to Charlotte. “But if I could just explain, make her see I’m not going to cheat on her...”

“Yeah, but you can’t prove it,” Ilsa insisted. “One of the problems we have in law. You can’t prove a negative. You can prove something did happen, but it’s almost impossible to prove it didn’t.” She squinted at her glass. “My round?”

Strike laughed. “I think they’re chucking us out,” he said.

Ilsa pouted. “But I’m having a nice evening.”

“Club?”

Ilsa shook her head. “Wanna chat, not dance. Can’t hear anything in those places.”

“Well, it’s back to yours, then. I’m not allowed to bring women into barracks, even if they are only friends.”

Ilsa brightened. “I have Baileys!”

“Ugh. I am not drinking that slimy stuff. It’s like sugary snot.”

Ilsa snorted a laugh. “It’s all I got.”

“Come on.” Strike stood and hauled her to her feet, amused at her wobble. “We’ll go to Costcutter. Need fags anyway. They’ll have some crappy whisky.”

The two friends meandered slowly, still chatting, to Ilsa’s flat by way of the Costcutter on the corner, where Strike bought cigarettes and, reluctantly, a cheap brand of whisky for an exorbitant price. Ilsa chose crisps and joined him at the till, amused to see that a tall blonde had struck up a conversation with him in the queue and had her hand on his arm.

“All right, love?” Ilsa asked pointedly, sliding her arm around him cosily, and the blonde stepped back. Ilsa gave her a pointed look, and she stepped back again. Hiding a smirk, Strike turned to the till with his purchases.

“I could have pulled there,” he teased as they set off up the road again.

Ilsa rolled her eyes. “I know,” she said. “You can pull anywhere. But not tonight. It’s girls’ night.”

“I lack the necessary equipment.”

She giggled. “You know what I mean. Friends night.”

He nodded and nudged her shoulder with his, and then laughed and steadied her as Ilsa nearly wobbled off the pavement.

It took Ilsa a few minutes to find her keys, but at last they were in her flat. She gave a small cheer to see her flatmates were out, and they set themselves up in the little living room with the whisky and the Baileys. Ilsa opened the windows wide and found him an ashtray. “My flatmates smoke in here, so you might as well.”

Strike lit up promptly, and Ilsa poured the drinks. She sat on the sofa next to him, and there was a pause.

Strike looked at her. “Whatcha thinking?”

Ilsa hesitated a little, but the temptation was too much. “Do you see Nick?” she asked in a rush, and hid her subsequent blush in her glass of Baileys.

Not fooled, Strike grinned. “I do. Saw him last week. I don’t see him much, what with his crazy rotas, but every so often when I’m in the country.”

“How is he?” Her voice was quiet.

Strike nodded. “Yeah, he’s good. He looks tired, but he gets this...look in his eye when he talks about work. It’s a vocation, a calling. I bet he’s a bloody good doctor.”

“I bet he is, too.” Ilsa paused, trying not to think about his hazel eyes and the way they’d once looked at her with such love. “Is he...seeing anyone?”

Strike rolled his eyes fondly. “Not that he mentioned. I didn’t ask, but I’m sure if he had major news on that front, he’d have told me.”

Ilsa nodded, pain twisting her heart. She mostly managed not to think about Nick these days, but sometimes when she’d had a surfeit of alcohol, the feelings all came back. _Change the subject._

“How’s Lucy? Not long till the wedding now.”

“No. It’s all she talks about, it’s quite tedious.”

Ilsa laughed. “And you approve of Greg?”

Strike pressed his lips together. “Approve is a strong word. She does love him, I’m sure of that. He’s a bit of a knob.”

Ilsa laid her head on his shoulder, slumping sideways a little. The Baileys was nice, but the room wasn’t staying still very well any more. “Would anyone have been good enough, though?”

“Probably not.” Strike poured some more whisky into his glass. “Top-up?”

Ilsa shook her head, and clutched his arm as the room lurched a little. Strike chuckled. “Water, maybe,” he said.

“‘M fine. Seen Shanker much?”

Strike shrugged. “A bit. He moves around a lot. It’s been a bit odd since—” He stopped.

Ilsa squeezed his arm. “Since your mum died.”

“Yeah.” His answer was short. He lit another cigarette.

“They’re similar, y’know,” Ilsa murmured. She picked up her Baileys, smelled it, shuddered a little and put it back down again.

“Who?”

“Y’r mum ’n’ Charlotte.”

Strike looked down at her. “They’re not the least bit similar.” He remembered Leda’s love, unconditional, the smell of her hair, and shook his head. Tonight wasn’t a night for getting maudlin.

“They kind of are.” Ilsa’s eyes drifted closed. “Both beautiful, really beautiful. But a bit screwy.”

Strike raised one eyebrow. “That’s my mother you’re talking about.”

“Oh, yeah, I know,” Ilsa said, waving an arm. “I’m not tryna be mean. But, you know, they both make...made...bad decisions. Charlotte hurts other people. Leda tried to fix ’em and ended up hurting herself.”

Strike was quiet, thinking about his. There were similarities. Drunken clarity made them obvious suddenly.

Ilsa groaned and opened her eyes. “Why won’ the room stay still? Tryna rest.”

Strike put his glass down. “I think we need to get you into bed,” he said. “Come on.”

He stood and hauled her to her feet. Ilsa wobbled, swayed a little and went slightly green. “Uh-oh—”

“This way!” He steered her swiftly out of the room and into the bathroom. Ilsa lurched for the toilet.

“Your hair—” Strike leaned over her as she knelt, scooping her hair into his big hand. Amused and fairly drunk himself, he held her hair and rubbed her back while she threw up a truly awful-looking mix of wine and Baileys.

“Better out than in,” he said grimly, trying not to breathe. Ilsa groaned and threw up again.

Eventually she was done, and there was a pause. Strike let go of his friend’s hair, and grabbed a towel. He ran one end under the cold tap in the sink and passed it to her. Ilsa sighed and wiped her face.

“Feel bit better,” she said brightly.

He laughed. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “Cup of tea?”

Ilsa shuddered. “Not that much better. Water,” she said. He fetched her a glass of water from the kitchen while she weaved her way to her bedroom and started undressing.

Strike arrived back to find her without her jeans, battling with her sweatshirt. She’d managed to get one arm out and was stuck. He put the glass down and helped her, muttering.

“Why do girls wear such fitted stuff? Loose jumpers are much easier to get off.”

“Gotta look good,” Ilsa said, finally shedding the jumper and grabbing the hem of her T-shirt.

“Whoa, whoa, you’ve taken enough off,” Strike said, hurriedly turning away as she pulled the hem up over her chest.

Ilsa giggled and tugged it back down. “Sorry. I forget you’re not one of the girls,” she said, wriggling instead to pull her bra out through her sleeves.

“Er, thank you? Is that meant to be a complement?” Strike regarded the patterns on the curtains, waiting until he heard the shuffle of the duvet.

“You can look now,” Ilsa said, and he turned back to see her cosied up in bed. He moved to sit next to her and passed her the water.

“Try and drink some, you’ll feel better tomorrow if you do. When are your flatmates home?”

“Dunno.”

“I’ll stay a bit in case you puke again. Sofa looks comfy.”

Ilsa giggled. “It’s half as long as you. Stay here.”

Strike looked at her. They’d not shared a bed since puberty and its resultant shyness had changed their friendship. They’d often had sleepovers as children. He’d visited her at university, but the tiny narrow student bunks had necessitated him sleeping on her floor the first night. (Ilsa had rolled her eyes and giggled when he’d been invited to sleep with her neighbour Polly the second.)

“Don’t be coy,” she mumbled, sleepy already. “You’re fully dressed, you can lie on top of the covers. ’M not suggesting anything.”

Strike nodded and lay down. “Drink your water.”

“‘M full.”

“You’ll feel better.”

“Don’t nag.”

There was a long pause.

“D’you still think about her a lot?”

“Charlotte?”

“Y’r mum.”

Another pause. Strike’s voice when he spoke was gruff. “Yeah.”

Ilsa’s was a conspiratorial whisper. “I still think about Nick.”

He turned his head on the pillow, regarded her profile with amusement. “You don't say.”

She rolled to face him, laying her head on his shoulder. “‘S not easy to live with stuff we don’ understand. No...what’s that American word? No _closure_.”

He tucked an arm around her over the duvet. “No.”

She paused so long, he wondered if she was asleep.

“Doesn’ mean you can fix it by fixing Charlotte.”

“What d’you mean?”

Ilsa yawned. “Dunno. Dunno what I mean. Makes sense in my head.”

Strike lay for long minutes, looking at the ceiling, his heart constricted with grief, unsure suddenly whether he was sad about the loss of his mother or the demise of his relationship. _This is why getting pissed is such a silly idea. It didn’t solve things three years ago, and it doesn’t solve them now._

“I miss her,” he whispered.

Ilsa snored.

 


	2. Strike and Nick

“Twice in a month?” Strike joked, as Nick set two pints down on the table. “Have you quit medicine?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Nick replied. “Cheers.” He sat, raised his pint and took a swig. “Just the way the rotas have worked out this month. Shame they never do that when you’re organising a group get-together, apart from that once.”

“One day you’ll make it to another.”

“I promise you, I will.”

Strike pulled his cigarettes from his coat pocket and looked around, got up and wandered off to find an ashtray. Nick wondered how long his next tour abroad was, when the next get-together might be. He harboured faint hopes that he might see Ilsa at one of them, but the vagaries of his rotas and the unpredictability of Strike’s appearances meant that he’d only made it to one of the impromptu gatherings, and despite normally attending, Ilsa hadn’t been at that particular one. He’d been bitterly disappointed, though he’d told himself not to be so silly.

 _I’m just interested to know how she is,_ he’d decided. _Be nice to catch up again._

_Yeah, right._

Strike returned and plonked the ashtray down.

“So what’s new?” Nick asked as Strike sat and lit his cigarette.

Strike sighed, blowing smoke away. “Charlotte and I split up. Properly.”

Nick hesitated half a beat too long. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Strike snorted.

“Well, okay. I’m sorry if you’re sorry.”

Strike looked at Nick, a hint of a glare. “Of course I’m sorry. We’ve been together three years. Mostly.”

Nick made a sympathetic face. “Then I am sorry, really. What happened?”

Strike sighed again. “It was Ilsa’s birthday bash and she didn’t want to go and didn’t want me to go.”

Nick ignored the jump in his heart at the mention of Ilsa’s name. “Why on earth would she mind you going?”

“She’s...had issues lately with trust, with thinking I’m cheating on her, which I’m not. But anyway. I went, and had to go back before I even got there to take her to hospital. She cut herself.”

Nick gave a low whistle. “Badly?”

Strike shrugged. “I dunno. There was a lot of blood, but she was only using my razor, can’t have gone too deep? It didn’t gush like arterial blood.”

Nick nodded, and found himself wondering what experience from Strike’s personal or Army life meant he knew what arterial blood looked like.

“So you took her to hospital?”

“Yeah, wrapped her in towels and called a cab. I rang Amelia and the family swept in and took over, so I just went and moved my stuff back to barracks.”

“You moved out?”

“She said if I went to Ilsa’s do, I needn’t bother coming back. And she must have imparted this to Amelia at some point, because she threw me out of the hospital with some delight, and now won’t tell me where Charlotte is or how she’s doing. She’s in rehab somewhere, not answering my texts.”

Strike sighed, stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. Nick took another swig of his pint, thinking. It spoke of Strike’s fierce loyalty that he’d placed Ilsa’s birthday over Charlotte’s insecurity. Or tried to.

“You think it’s Amelia who’s shutting you out?”

“I’m pretty sure. Charlotte wouldn’t just cut me off like this.”

There was a pause.

“I know none of you liked her.” Strike said suddenly.

Nick shifted uncomfortably. “Don’t really know her, mate. If she makes you happy, then it doesn’t matter what we think. I can’t really comment.”

Strike grinned, disarming him. “Well, I know Chum doesn’t like her because he pretty much tells her to her face. And Ilsa told me herself just last week that she doesn’t. That’s going to be fun when we patch things up.”

Ilsa’s name again, creeping into the conversation. “Think you will patch things up?”

“If I can get past Amelia, yeah. Probably won’t be till after I get back from the next posting, though. Think this so-called treatment takes time.”

“Well, I hope it works out for you. Don’t look at me like that, I honestly do, if it’s what you want. I’ll make more effort with her.”

Strike harrumphed a little. He was tired of defending his relationship with Charlotte. He understood how inexplicable it must look from outside. But if they loved each other, what else mattered?

 _Change the subject,_ Nick thought. Ilsa’s name hung over the conversation like a spectre, all he could think of.

“So, you’ve seen Ilsa? Since?”

“Yeah, last couple of weeks. Belated birthday celebration to make up for missing the real one. We had a bit too much to drink, as you do. Really good catch-up, actually.” He chose to forget about the alcohol-induced melancholy, glad Ilsa had fallen asleep and missed it.

Nick nodded. “She well?”

“Yeah, I think so. Got a good mate at work, they’re talking about flat-sharing.”

There was a pause. Nick’s gaze slid down to the table. He picked up a beer mat, put it down again.

“She, er, seeing anyone?”

Strike muttered something that sounded like ‘fuck’s sake’. “Not as far as I know.”

Nick nodded again, gazing into his pint.

Strike sighed. “You two want your heads banging together.”

Nick looked up at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

The tiniest hesitation. “Nothing.” Strike looked away, concentrating on grinding the last of his cigarette into the ashtray.

“No, what?”

Strike set his jaw. He’d promised himself a long time ago he wouldn’t get in the middle of this. Nothing good would come from meddling. “Nothing. It’s my round. You having another?” He stood.

“Er, yeah, please. Same again.”

Strike nodded. He picked up their glasses and marched towards the bar. Nick watched him go, thinking.

 


End file.
